


can’t find my way home

by gottabewhatomorrowneeds



Series: i’ll give you all the nails you need [7]
Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album), The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Gen, Ghosts, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Underage Drinking, fair warning i wrote this with very very little editing afterwards, party poison is a cryptid and that’s just the entire fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24115240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gottabewhatomorrowneeds/pseuds/gottabewhatomorrowneeds
Summary: There’s a ghost that lingers in the corner of any party. Maybe if you’re drunk enough, you might be able to catch sight of a killjoy with a legacy greater than most, with red hair and a name that’ll send chills down your spine.
Series: i’ll give you all the nails you need [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622683
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23





	can’t find my way home

**Author's Note:**

> if anything needs to be tagged, let me know!
> 
> title from my way home is through you

The year is 2020. You have a name. It doesn’t matter.

Well, it does to a few people. It matters to your crew, your little band of friends who have become the siblings you never quite had back in the city (you had them, but not like this). It matters to you, because when you escaped the city, you created a whole new alter ego with a shiny new name to match and you shed the false name of the city.

But at this moment, it doesn’t matter. You don’t matter, your name doesn’t matter, none of the hundreds of people whose body heat is making the building you’re dancing in feel a thousand times hotter than the desert heat outside matter. Even so, you don’t leave the building, not even for a breath of fresh air.

You came here for a party. You came here for the free beer, for free food. You came here to steal the drinks your friends pick up and you came here to party hard, to maybe find a cute boy or girl or whoever and maybe hook up, or at least kiss. You came here to forget your own name.

Everyone in this crowd is faceless. It’s pitch black inside the club you’re in- Bullets, you think it was called. Hot Chimp is the owner, and you can see her pumping out tunes, spinning records in the very corner of your eye. Neon lights hang haphazardly from the ceiling, acting as the only beacons of light in the entire building, spinning and blinding anyone who isn’t careful about where they’re looking. There’s a strange haze that the lights seem to filter through, and you think it has the distinct scent of cigarette smoke. Smoking isn’t a habit you picked up, but you’ve been around other killjoys enough to be able to pick up on the stench. 

You take a shot from a cup that you’re pretty sure wasn’t actually yours. There’s a couple next to you, making out sloppily and grinding hard. Mad Gear and the Missile Kid blares as you move about the crowd. As of now, you’re drunk as a fucking skunk. Everything is a little blurry, and you’re stumbling as you move. You don’t know why you’re digging deeper into the sea of flesh- you’re looking for someone. Maybe someone to kiss. Or maybe your crew- actually, where did they go? You can’t remember.

You stumble about until you hit the bar. You lean against it, trying to get your bearings. Music is pumping, the bass tab causing your bones to rattle. You take a few breaths, trying to think. 

You don’t know why you glance to your left. You think it’s because you heard a quiet giggle, a strange sound in the environment. The fact that the sound managed to catch your attention when there’s the sounds of drunks screaming along to an already loud song, that’s what makes you look.

There’s a person, dancing next to a girl with bright purple hair. Everyone around them is clearly drunk as hell- the girl is barely even standing upright, and the others are laughing even though no one has said anything since you’ve been standing there. The person who caught your attention has bright red hair. There’s something familiar about them.

They’re not drunk. They’re movements are fluid and almost calculated, and while they have the air of someone carefree, they don’t seem to be as loose or stumbling as the rest of the crowd around them. The girl croons and tries to kiss them. They kiss back.

You stare at them. There’s something very, very strange about them.

Some people keep moving past them, not even looking at them. There’s a couple others who gape at them. Mostly, there’s just drunks trying to get their attention. Most people don’t even seem to see them.

But you see them. You soak in their red hair, the outfit they’re wearing, and you try to think. Come on, red hair. That’s familiar. Why is that familiar? There’s plenty of people with dyed red hair, but you’ve never seen it appear so red, so much like the fires of a blazing inferno.

You’re drunk as hell, and thoughts aren’t coming quickly. But it suddenly slaps you in the face. The lightbulb goes off so suddenly you almost feel blinded by your own realisation.

Party Poison is standing at the edge of the party. You blink a few times, just to check. Just thinking of the name sends chills down your spine.

Party Poison gazes back. No one seems to notice them, or at the least, seems to notice who they are. But you remember with clarity that broadcast just last year, you remember the names of those who traveled to Battery City to save one little girl and lost their lives for her, and you remember the fierce leader with bright red hair. 

You’ve never met them. How could you? The desert often feels so vast it’s infinite, and not all killjoys know each other. You’ve never seen their face, can barely recall any details about them other than their yellow mask, their flaming red hair, their bright blue jacket, and that alluring voice that once captivated the entire zones.

But it’s more of a sensation than it is a recollection, a comparison of their face to a memory. You don’t know their face, just their name, just who they were. But you don’t even know that much, do you?

You stare at them, because they are utterly consuming your mind. They’re supposed to be dead, aren’t they? Dead, dusted, ghosted- that was the report last November. The era of the Fab Four ended. All four of them were dead.

But there they were, standing in the corner of some trashy party, dancing with some girl who doesn’t seem to recognise who they are. 

You watch them laugh as they dance with a clearly drunk girl with neon purple hair. They’re holding a solo cup as red as their hair, but they don’t take a single sip from it unlike the girl, who’s taking shot after shot. They’re just surrounded by a gaggle of drunks. Maybe you’re included in that group.

Party Poison has been watching you right back. You make eye contact, and you don't have the decency to look away. They wink at you.

Someone calls your name. You glance back to find one of your crew mates looking relieved to have found you. She leans on your shoulder, her voice quiet in the barrage of noise. “Oh thank god! Where’ve you been, man?”

“I was…” You don’t know what you were doing. “Dude, I think I found Party Poison.”

She squints. “What? Ain’t they dead?”

“Look.” You glance back at the corner they were dancing in. The drunk girl with purple hair is slow dancing with someone else now, a boy with a mohawk. There’s no sign of the legend with red hair and their deep blue jacket. You blink a few times.

She sighs. “Man, you are fucking wasted. We gotta head out, before you do anything stupid. Let’s find the others.”

She tries to herd you away from the corner, but you drag your feet. You saw them, you know you did. But that’s impossible? They’re dead?

You leave the party. You’re drunk as fuck. You’ll wake up the next day with a pounding headache and one of the worst hangovers you’ve ever had. Your memories are foggy, and you’re disappointed you didn’t manage to find someone to make out with.

You forget about the red hair, and those eyes of a thousand suns.

-

The year is 2024. You have a name. It doesn’t matter.

It used to matter, to people like Cherri Cola and Dr. Death Defying and even the late Fabulous Four. It used to have meaning, yet you find yourself living between the lines of obscurity and remembrance. 

You’re at a Mad Gear and the Missile Kid show. The drums are so loud you can feel your brain rattle against your skull, your bones vibrate so hard you’re almost worried they might fall out. 

You don’t drink, not much. Reminds you too much of the medication of the city, back when you were some nobody kid who listened to everything BLi said with reverence. You were always known for being a party animal, for being the life of the party, but you didn’t need drinks to do that. You’re fun, completely sober.

But this party is different. You just got back from a mission under Dr. D to try and sneak out some killjoys from a laboratory on the outskirts of zone one. It was relatively successful, three of them made it out. But you’ve been stuck in a medicine processing plant for months, and you just want to feel something again. Pulling off inside jobs like that always made you feel off kilter afterwards.

Not only that, but it’s November. And it’s been five years since you watched some of your closest friends march off to Battery City to commit a quadruple suicide all for the sake of a girl you can’t help but resent. 

It’s not her fault. She’s barely even eleven now. She’s still with Dr. D, trying to find a sense of purpose. You can’t resent her, because she didn’t force them all to die for her. You know she feels guilt over that fact every day. It’s not her fault.

But it’s the five year anniversary since they died. You think about how old they could be, what sort of things they could have done in those five years. They were just teenagers when they died, just a bunch of scraggly children trying to make something out of this awful, war-torn society. 

You were only seventeen when they died, same age as Kobra and Poison. Ghoul was eighteen, Jet Star was nineteen. You’re twenty two now, and you’ve outlived them all, and what do you have to show for it?

So, you break your no drinking rule. It won’t hurt for just one night, just one night. 

Except it just might. You find yourself taking shot after shot, and the night seems to blur strangely. Every face you see has a hazy quality, and all of your senses feel almost completely full. You’re drunk, and you know this, and you don’t like the feeling but you don’t stop yourself from taking another drink out of the hands of a flirtatious killjoy next to you.

The music feels almost completely overwhelming. You feel a headache beginning to form, and you find yourself slowly fading away from the very front of the stage. Killjoys happily take the spot you had been standing in, and you quietly make your way to the back. There’s a section of stupidly drunk killjoys dancing offbeat to Mad Gear’s shredding guitar solo. You stand next to them, trying to regain a sense of balance.

A couple of killjoys accidentally push against you. They giggle, not even realising they hit you. You glance back to the group of killjoys, wanting to say something, to have something to direct your anger towards, but something stops you from speaking one word.

A person with red hair is grinding against a boy with neon blue hair. Their blue jacket gleams in the dim lights of the concert. It might be dark as hell, it might have been five years since you last saw them, but you know that face.

You know that face, because that face and three others have been haunting your every waking and sleeping moment. You know that face, because you’ve kissed it and spoke to it, because you’ve memorized the freckles and the scars and those eyes that hold the fires of a thousand suns, determination burning like a wildfire. You know that face.

It’s Party Poison.

God, it’s Party Poison.

They’re laughing, a sound you haven’t heard in so long. They’re dancing with that other kid, partying away. It makes you feel as if you’re seventeen again, going to a rave with Party Poison and Fun Ghoul for the first time, just having an all out blast together. It makes you feel so young, to see them there, completely unchanged by time.

You rub your eyes. It’s the alcohol, or maybe someone slipped something into the cookies that were being passed around a bit earlier. They don’t exist, they can’t exist, because they’re dead. And they’re supposed to be with the Witch, supposed to have had their soul reclaimed. Cherri put their stuff and the others in the mailbox. They can’t be here.

You feel like you’re losing your mind.

You start pushing your way towards them. You have to reach them, you have to get to them. You need to hear their voice, you need to understand what the fuck is happening. You don’t care if it’s just a hallucination. God, you just want to hear their voice again.

Shots suddenly sound off. Screams start filling the air. “Mom and Dad are home!” Someone shouts. “The Scarecrows are here! They found us!”

You don’t know it, but some wave head north of here sold out the location of this party to a couple of Drac squads. All you know is that there are exterminators here, and probably some Dracs, and everybody is scattering like ants. You pull out your gun, and you glance back at the group of drunk killjoys.

Party Poison is gone. The killjoys seemed to have sobered up just a bit, are pulling out their own guns, ready to stay on the offense. You need to run, you know you’re too drunk to be of any use. You can barely see straight, but your legs won’t work.

The music has long stopped, but it was playing so loud it seems to echo in your skull, like how the sun leaves those weird colours dancing across your vision. There’s so much screaming, and you see people dropping like flies, see blood spilling into the desert sands.

“Show Pony!” Someone screams, but it’s way too late.

A shot hits you straight in the neck from the back. You fall to the ground, feeling like a doll whose strings have been snapped. You can feel the blood rushing from your neck, gushing out into your clothes. You’re going to die soon, but you’re too drunk to even care all that much.

You land on your side and roll over on your back. You stare at the sky above you, at the couple of stars that manage to break through the haze of nuclear pollution. Blood sticks to you, staining the sand beneath you. It feels strange, to die.

Someone hovers over you. Red pervades your vision. Those eyes that burn like a thousand suns bore into yours. You’re on your last few breaths now, working on borrowed time.

There’s a voice, whispering quietly in the air. Screams continue to fill the air, almost swallowing over the voice that feels so close, so warm, so familiar.

“Saints protect them now…”

You reach up to touch their face. It’s solid, strangely so, but so, so cold. You remember the time you brushed lips against there’s and thought their skin was so hot it might burn you like a stove.

“Come angels of the Lord…”

“Party Poison…”

“Come angels of unknown…”

You cry. You take one last breath, and you feel a cold hand brush aside your hair from your face.

You’re twenty two. The last thing you see before you die is the colour red.

-

It’s 2027. You have a name, and it means absolutely nothing.

It used to mean something, all those years ago. It used to mean something, when you had friends, when you were young and carefree and didn’t watch all of your friends get slaughtered to the corporation that forced you to serve in a meaningless war.

You’ve been holed up in your little radio shack for a good long while now. You’ve become a bit of a hermit, only emerging every once in a while to speak to Dr. D. You’re just tired of seeing things, seeing all these terrible events. You’re tired of knowing people only to know of their deaths. So you stay away from people, and you write your poetry, and you hope to every god out there that you’ll have a nice couple of remaining years, that no more of your friends are going to die so fucking young. 

You’re barely thirty, but you managed to outlive every single one of your friends, except for three. But the Fab Four are dead, Show Pony is dead, and you’ve lost countless others to both war and revolution. You’re tired.

You haven’t seen Newsagogo or Hot Chimp in literal years. But one day Newsagogo literally tears the door to your shack off its hinges and drags you outside. She’s taking you to her and Hot Chimp’s club, wanting you to try and either make a social life or have some fun. Anything, as long as you’re out of the shack.

You protest, but there’s no point in fighting, really, so you give up. And you find yourself inside Bullets, nursing some watered down whiskey that doesn’t even taste good, and definitely isn’t packing the punch you want.

You used to be a wave head for a little while, after the Fab Four had died. You’ve given that up, and you’ve tried giving up alcohol, but it’s hard not relapse in moments like these, when you’re just so god damned miserable.

You drink your whiskey, order another glass, and you try to ignore everything around you. You were never much of a party person- the Fab Four used to try to drag you out to nightclubs with Show Pony, get you to loosen up. You hated it, but you never really told them to stop, because you liked spending time with them even if it was at some trashy party.

Man, this is just bringing up memories you don’t want to think about. So you down another glass. 

You’re a lightweight, in all honesty. It’s been so long since you’ve had a drink, and you’re already feeling pretty buzzed. And then someone gave you a bottle of vodka, which definitely isn’t as strong as it was back during the pre-wars era, but it definitely hits.

You sit at the bar, you ignore the thumping music, and you start chugging that bottle. You don’t know anyone here. You want to keep it that way.

The group next to you keeps bumping into you. You’ve tried keeping your head down, tried ignoring them, tried pretending that it wasn’t getting on your nerves, but it was. You hate confrontation (a personality trait that lead to the demise of four of your friends- don’t think. Don’t think of that) but that alcohol is making something in you burn. 

So you get off your sad bar stool and you turn to face the boy who keeps bumping into you, and you open your mouth, and then you immediately shut it.

In the center of the ring of drunks is a kid with flaming red hair. They’re telling a story, one that seems to be pretty funny since all the drunks are laughing or crying from laughing god hard. They make exaggerated gestures, and seem to be the only one not drunk.

You blink a few times. Oh no, this is not happening. You’ve seen ghosts sometimes, seen the faces of your friends haunt you in the dark of your shack, in the dunes of the desert. They’ve haunted you before, but not like this.

Party Poison laughs. It’s a sound you never got to hear all that much when they were alive. They were just a kid, trying to be the face of a revolution. They weren’t always serious, they were an awful flirt and loved telling shitty jokes, but there was always something grime about them, like they knew some awful knowledge, just always seemed to be weighed down by something.

You swallow, thick. Clearly, everyone else sees this kid. They’re talking to them, but you notice it’s only the drunks who are gathered around and listening. Anytime someone sober walks by, they seem to cast a strange look at the group. What is this, folie a deux?

You make your way inside the group. It took you a bit to work up the nerves to push past the other kids, but you do it. You need to speak to them.

You can hear their voice. Oh god, it sounds exactly like you remember. It’s gravely from the years of disuse as a Drac and from years of screaming as a killjoy. It still has that Battery City twang they were never able to quite get rid of, which makes their velvet words have a strange texture.

God. It’s them.

Party Poison ends their story, and the drunks are still laughing. They’re holding a red solo cup, but they don’t take a single drink from it as they lean against the bar counter, clearly pleased at the laughs.

“Party Poison.”

“Cherri Cola.” They have the balls to not even spare you a glance, to not even appear surprised.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’d say the same as you, but I planned on having fun. You? You seem to be down right miserable.”

“Poison. You know what I mean.” 

“Ha.” Poison swirls around the drink. The drunks are chittering about, and you don’t bother paying attention to what they’re saying. “I do.”

“So?”

“I’m dead.” 

You suck in a deep breath. Of course. Of course they are. “A ghost?”

“Bingo.”

“But why? I sent your things to the Witch, with your brothers. You shouldn’t be here.”

Poison watches you closely. “Don’t worry. All my brothers are perfectly fine. The Witch happily took them into whatever afterlife exists. They were delivered.”

“And you?”

“I’m just not lucky.” They fiddle with the bad luck beads on their wrist. They’re voice lowers, almost hushed amidst the music. “I was a Drac before I became an exterminator, you know this.”

“Yes?”

“You know those Drac masks fuck up people’s souls. They fuck them up really, really badly. My soul got all… tangled, I guess, because of them. It fucked up my soul. So the Witch can’t deliver me.”

You feel something cold knot in your stomach. “You… you’re stuck here?”

“Kind of. I can’t get into the afterlife until the Witch has the item that has my most memories. It’s sort of like, a defense mechanism my soul’s put into place, because it’s been tampered and fucked with so much. If the Witch has that, then She can guide me home.”

“She needs your mask.”

Poison does finger guns at you. “Still as sharp as ever! That’s it!”

“So until your mask is in the mailbox, you’re stuck here?”

“Yep. As some ghost.”

“So you loiter around a fucking club?”

“What can I say? If I’m stuck in this purgatory, might as well have some fun.” A girl pulls on their sleeve and they begin to dance. She’s drunk, and it’s sloppy, but Poison doesn’t seem to care. They give her a little twirl. You watch, completely dumbfounded.

“I’m going to find your mask,” you state. It’s a promise. You have to free them. You let them all die, you watched them go commit their suicide, and now they don’t even get to spend their afterlife together. “I will.”

Poison pats your cheek. Their hand is airy and light, almost transparent. They look just as they had when they died, young and sweet, just seventeen. Your heart aches at the thought. “That’s the Cherri Cola I love. So serious.”

They set the solo cup down and let go of the girl they were dancing with. They glance behind you, and smile. “Better watch out.”

“Huh?”

“Cherri! There you are!” Newsagogo’s voice causes you to turn around. She jumps into you, and you instinctively catch her in your arms. She laughs at you and wraps an arm around yours. “Wow, you look drunk off your shits.”

“Newsie, I just saw-“

“You’re hanging out with the drunks, you know.” She glances at the others in the corner. “When I said I want you to integrate into society, that’s not what I meant.”

“I saw Party Poison.”

Her smile falls. Something swims in her eyes. It’s definitely pity. Before she can say a word, you spin around, pulling her with you to show her the vibrant soul you just spoke to.

There’s no one there.

“Oh, honey,” she whispers. “Yeah, maybe dragging you out to the club wasn’t a great idea. Come on man, let’s get you sobered up.”

“Newsie…”

She just pats your arms and starts to drag you away. You glance back, one last time, desperate to see them again. You don’t see that face, that face that used to be the face of an entire revolution. You do see a streak of red.

You don’t see them ever again. You’ve tried, hopping around various parties, and you tried to get drunk enough. But somehow, you’re just not quite lucky enough. 

But that’s okay. They told you enough. You have to find their mask. You’ll save them.

(You won’t.)

-

It is 2029. You have a name, but it won’t mean much for a few more years.

It’ll mean something, eventually. But right now, it still means a lot even if it only means something to you and your twin, who you matched your name with. It doesn’t mean anything now, except between the two of you.

You and Vamos are at a basement party. You’re both sixteen, recently escaped Battery City kids who are quickly finding the desert to be the place you dreamed of. It’s so much fun!

The fashion here is wack, and being stylish is praised. You get to express yourself however the hell you want. You both recently died each other’s hair, turquoise and pink. You’re liking the colours, but you might fuck around a bit more before you decide to stick to it. Besides, every colour is your colour.

In any case, you’re ogling some of the clothes on the kids next to you. That chick with the green hair has the coolest fucking boots you’ve ever seen. If you get a chance, you are definitely going to be stealing those suckers. 

You’re not entirely sure where Vamos has gone. You think they went to flirt with a cute boy at the end of the bar, but they’re pretty absent minded and they might have wandered off. Or maybe they’re getting laid, and scored it off with that hot boy. Either way, you’ll have to go looking for them in a little while.

But right now? You’re pouring glass after glass of who knows what in your mouth. Some shitty, no name band is playing in the background, and you sing along to the lyrics as best you can to the chagrin of literally everyone around you. Thank god you have no concept of shame.

You’re getting pretty drunk now, not just tipsy anymore. It’s a nice feeling, a pretty cool buzz, and you’re feeling light and bubbly. You definitely need to lay off the drunks, but hey. You only live once.

Someone sits down next to you. They’re wearing the sickest, shiniest jacket you’ve ever seen. You say as much. “Holy shit man, you’re drenched in murder. That’s a shiny jacket there.”

“Thanks.” It’s a boy. He looks a little older than you. He leans against the counter, and hm. He seems a lot closer than he probably should be. “You know, you’re pretty cute yourself.”

You blush. “Oh, you bet I am.”

“How about we head upstairs?” There’s a hand on your back, slowly sliding down. “Or we can get down and dirty right here, honey.”

His voice doesn’t sound quite right. You’re not sure you want to be alone with him. Even your foggy mind seems to sense somethings a little weird with him. “I think I’ll go back to drinking alone.”

“Aw, come on.” He scoots right next to you, an arm wrapping around you. He smells of cheap cigarettes. His lips graze your ear as he whispers, “Don’t be a fucking prude.”

You don’t like this. “Hey, get off.”

“You teased, too.” He’s getting angry. “Listen, I’m getting something out of this tonight.”

His lips hit yours, and you try to break away, but damn, his grip is strong. You kick his leg instead, and that causes him to stop. He growls at you and snatches up your wrist, pulling up to a standing position. “Come on, I've got the perfect room.”

You stumble, completely unbalanced and uncoordinated. You try to put on the breaks, but he doesn’t care. He’s drunk as hell, just like you, but the difference is that he’s still way stronger than you. So he drags you along the dance floor, pushing past couples grinding against each other in a faceless crowd. You try to get him to let go, but you’re just so fucking slow and weak.

“Let go!” You shout. The music swallows you, and no one seems to even spare you a glance. “Let me go, let me go!”

“Just one night, baby!” The guy yells. “Don’t be a fucking party poison.”

“I don’t want to go with you.”

“Hey, asshole.”

Someone steps in front of the guy. The boy is taller than them, and you only get to see a bit of red from your point of view. You scooch around to try to see your hopeful savior to be. They have a presence that commands respect, and there’s fires burning in their eyes as they stare only physically up at the drunk man holding on to your wrist.

The drunk man watches them back, looking nervous but still holding his ground. “Get out of my way.”

“Not until you let them go.” They cross their arms, unimpressed. “Come on, I heard them screaming at you. They don’t wanna fuck you, honey.”

“Stay out of this!”

“I mean, with your unattractive personality, and can see why they don’t wanna fuck that.” They leer at him, a crooked smile on their face. “Oh, I bet your dick is the same size as your pea brain. Don’t blame them for not wanting to bang whatever junk you got.”

The boy doesn’t even say a word, just growls as a warning before he swings his fist at them. They lean back, easily avoiding the punch of a drunk man, and then they punch him right back. Their fist lands true and hits him straight in the neck. He lets go of you and stumbles back, unable to breathe.

“Go on, get lost.” They wave their hand, and the boy decides that’s the perfect cue to leave before they get wrecked. You stare at them, at their flaming red hair and their blue, blue jacket and their burning, burning eyes. Something’s familiar about them.

They glance back at you and send you a dazzling smile. “You alright?”

“Oh, I’m milkshake.” You go from dazed and confused to enamoured with the stranger. “Man, that sure was real sexy of you, throat chopping that bitch.”

They laugh. It’s cute. “Yeah, well, I used to be a Neon Angel. There’s lots of creeps out there, and when you don’t have a gun, you have to make do.”

Neon Angel? That’s some old slang you’ve heard from people decades older than you. “Damn, how old are you?”

“Technically your age.” They shrug. “Anyway, it’s nice meeting you…”

“Vaya,” you offer. 

“However, I hope you don’t get drunk enough to see me again.” They point towards the pile of drunks in the back corner. “But if you wanna hang out, I’ll probably be over there.”

You’re excited at the prospect. They’re pretty hot, after all. There’s something tantalising in the way they speak, in the confidence they hold. “Oh baby, I’d love to hang out with you any time. What’s your name, huh?”

There’s a sharp glint in their eye. “The name’s Party Poison.”

Your brain freezes. You completely freeze in place. You know that name, you know the legacy attached to it, you know the story behind it. You know who Party Poison is- hell, they’re part of the reason you broke out from the city, when you and your sibling were slumming in the Lobby and were enamoured with the story of the chic leader of the revolution. You wanted to be a fashionable killjoy like them, except maybe without the tragic death. 

“Ah! Vaya!”

You turn out of reflex. Vamos is running up to you, looking out of breath. There’s a lipstick stain on their left cheek, and their own lipstick is a little smudged. They give you a dazzling smile. “Hey, where’ve you been?”

You glance back behind you. Party Poison is gone.

You stare at the space they occupied. You remember them, remember them as this hero you and Vamos used to worship in the little apartment you squatted in when you lived in the Lobby. You remember their action figure and their poster, you remember wishing to be something more than just a bunch of rats living in the streets. You remember wanting to be them.

You glance back at Vamos. You hesitate. Of course, prattling on about how you met the ghost of the leader of the Fab Four, how you met Party Poison, was very alluring. But you hesitate, even though every story you have you’ve shared with your twin. Everything that is yours is theirs, and the same works in reverse. You two function as one, act as one. You’re often told off for your codependency, but how can you not be when you’re both just two halves of the same soul?

But you hesitate.

Vamos sees your conflict. The two of you are horrible at being serious- it’s why you’re both terrible in fights, why you’re both shit killjoys. Some call it a coping mechanism, you call it a way of life. But neither of you are good at being serious.

But Vamos just gives you a softer look than usual, and lowers their voice just so. “Hey, you don’t have to talk about it.”

You decide to settle on the truth. “Someone got a bit too handsy, but I taught him a lesson.”

Vamos smiles and high fives you. You smile right back. “Sick! Now, let’s get wasted?”

“Let’s get wasted!”

“Fuck yeah!”

Vamo drags you back into the party. You don’t forget about the red headed ghost, and while you aren’t sure if they were real or not, it doesn’t stop from searching at every party you go to. If you squint your eyes hard enough, sometimes you can see that red hair and blue jacket. And sometimes you can still hear the quiet laughter of a killjoy from an era before you.

-

It’s 2030. You have a name. It means something, it’s starting to. 

It’s a name that’s circulating through the desert. You’re becoming, ever so slowly, the face of a new revolution, of a cause that led to the deaths of the Fabulous Four. You promised you wouldn’t end up like them, wouldn’t let yourself die for something so stupid like a little girl. 

You’re better than that. Besides, you’re going to actually change the world. You’re going to destroy BLi with your bare hands if you have to. You will wage a war, and you’re going to make damn sure that you’re on the side that wins.

But you won’t see anything like that come to fruition for a little while. Right now, you’re seventeen years old. You’ve just started the Ultra V’s, a gang that’s been gaining traction. You’ve got plenty of people in line to join the gang that’s allegedly going to destroy BLi, but you keep a tight circle. You don’t trust well, or really, at all.

So far, Vinyl, Volume, Vamos, and Vaya have all joined. Each of them have their merit, except for the twins. You don’t like them, but you keep them around even though they constantly question your judgements and morality and clearly don’t agree with you. You don’t know why they stick around, but for some reason, you haven’t bothered kicking them out, either.

The twins have dragged you to a party at the Nest. It’s some sort of celebration for Destroya. You don’t care, because you don’t believe in magic or gods or an afterlife. You don’t believe in anything you can’t see, in anything that can’t be achieved through hard work. 

You come anyway, and you don’t know why. You hate parties- they’re just gatherings that are begging to attract BLi. It’s just a waste of time, when there’s so many better things to do- like destroy the machine that is the corporation. 

But here you are, lingering at the edge of a party you have no interest in. Vamos and Vaya are already drunk off their shits, laughing at awful jokes they’re cracking with each other as they ogle some of the boys next to them. You don’t know where Vinyl or Volume is, and you don’t care.

You drink a beer, watered down and practically tasteless. You don’t want to be here, but you don’t leave. You don’t know why. Something is keeping you here, some strange feeling in your gut that keeps your feet acting as cement blocks. 

So you stay put, and you drink your shitty beer. You stare into the hearth of the bonfire, wondering what you’re waiting for. 

Someone bumps into you. You bump them right back, even harder, nearly spilling the drink in your hand. You’re agitated already, for being at a party you don’t care about, for letting Vamos and Vaya smooth talk you into some religious gathering you don’t believe in, for being in a place where it would be so easy for someone to just pick you off, flick out your lights and squash you like the insignificant bug you pretend you aren’t. 

You push back, ready to start a fight. That’s all you ever seem to be doing anymore, anway- starting meaningless fights. You’ve just got this red hot anger in your stomach that won’t fade, that won’t disappear. You need to expel it.

The drunk girl giggles at you and offers a slurred apology. You’re still considering fighting her when another voice catches your attention. It’s familiar, even though you’re certain you’ve never heard it before. So you glance away from her, just for a moment, and the only thing you can see for a moment is red.

Red hair that seems to glow from the light of the bonfire. There’s a kid that looks your age in the center of the group you have decided are useless drunks, telling a story that sounds oddly familiar. They’re wearing a blue, blue jacket and holding a red solo cup that they swirl around as they speak rather animatedly.

They look so familiar. Their name is on the tip of your tongue. You feel oddly drawn to them, and you begin to move past the drunks, pushing them aside to get towards the epicenter.

“And that’s when I shout ‘This ain’t a party! Get off the dance floor!’” They turn their fingers into guns and point sporadically. “‘You want the get down? Here comes a gang war!’ And an all out brawl took place!”

The people were absolutely enraptured with their words. You’ve never seen drunks care so much about a single story, have their focus completely undivided. It’s kind of eerie.

They finish up their story. It’s got a humorous ending, and the drunks burst into laughter at the end. They chatter and chatter about, and while the attention never quite leaves them as they speak to a boy with snake bites, the attention does quietly die. You stare at them, trying to put a finger on who they are.

They glance up, and you both make eye contact. You’re the fearless leader of the Ultra V’s, so you don’t back down, you don’t show shame at being caught. But you are caught off guard at how intense their gaze is, like staring into a thousand suns.

“Who are you?” You demand. Well, socialization wasn’t exactly your strong suit. You didn’t gain respect from most of the desert by your charm- you earned it because of your quick trigger finger.

“Who are you?” They counter back. There’s something strange in the way they watch you. They lean casually against a withered electrical line. 

“Val Velocity,” you huff. “And you?”

They do jazz hands. “A ghost.”

“Yeah, you have the personality of a corpse.”

“Coming from someone who immediately insults a person they don’t even know.” They smile at you, and that catches you off guard. “Is there something you want?”

You don’t say a word. “You just seemed familiar, is all.”

“I get that a lot.” They wink. “But I’m pretty one of a kind.”

“What’s your name, huh?”

They smile. “What do you believe in?”

You hate this person. They keep surprising you, and you hate people who aren’t predictable, who aren’t straight forward. You want to know what their end goal is. “Only in things I can see.”

“Fitting.” They swirl the drink in their hands, staring at it. “But that’s rather constricting and close minded.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Things aren’t always as they seem. Not everything is black and white. And not everything can be seen clearly by just the naked human eye.” They glance up, and you feel the weight of their stare. “You want to change the world, huh? Everyone wants to do that. But are you willing to die? Are you willing to try? Are you going to be what will save us all?”

You don’t like this. “I sure fucking am. I’m going to succeed where the Fab Four failed.”

That makes the redhead laugh. “No, I don’t think you will.”

You turn your hands into fists. “Just answer my question. Who the fuck are you?”

“I was just like you. But you can’t win this war with just violence. You can’t win this war with your guns and your fists and your flashy words.”

“Who are you?!”

“I’m you.” You blink, and they smile. “I’m nobody special.”

“Don’t you dare fucking insinuate that I’m a nobody, don’t you dare-“

“I’m Party Poison.”

Every word that threatens to escape your lips, every obscenity you wish to curse them with dies. They just keep smiling at you, laughing. “Like I said. You won’t win this war with violence. You don’t want to repeat my mistakes? Be careful what you wish for. Because maybe my mistake wasn’t really a mistake.”

You open your mouth to rebuke. You feel like your head is empty, yet completely filled to the brim. You want to yell at them, at this ghost of a past that should mean nothing to you, at this hero who used to mean everything to you until you realised they died for a little girl, that they let themself be killed for no god damn reason. You want to scream that you’re nothing like them, that you’re not some nobody, that you’re going to have a legacy as the one who brought BLi’s reign of terror to an end, that you won’t be forgotten by everyone like that bastard ghost.

“Val?”

Volume calls for you, and you turn to answer. He seems nervous, and seems to know that you’re in a shit mood. “Hey, Vinyl and me were going to go home. You don’t like parties, so do you want to come with?”

You glance back behind you, back towards the ghost. Party Poison has disappeared, but their words still linger in your head like aftertaste of a sour candy. You drop your beer bottle and stomp on it, shattering the glass. You can feel Volume wince.

“Let’s fucking leave,” you order. “Get Vinyl to round up Vamos and Vaya. And if they don’t want to come, they can walk home. This place is full of wackos.”

You don’t go to another party, not for a long, long time. You’re not scared of who you’ll see there. You ignore their words. After all, they’re not even real. And if they were? Why listen to the advice of someone who’s fucking dead?

-

The year is 2031. You don’t have a name. Or maybe you do. You have a placeholder that feels almost exactly like a name. The Girl.

It’s been twelve years since you watched your entire world crumble. It’s been twelve years since your family was destroyed- since you watched Korse shove a gun under Party Poison’s neck, since you watched Kobra Kid get shot to death after going berserk over the death of his sibling, since you watched Fun Ghoul sacrifice himself so you and Jet Star could escape, since you watched Jet Star go sprawling across the trans am’s hood, and then go still.

It’s been so, so long. But those memories feel almost as fresh as yesterday. 

And now Show Pony is dead. And Cherri Cola, who’s been a hermit since you turned fourteen, suddenly reappears in your life. You’ve been wandering around the zones since you were thirteen, desperately trying to get a sense of purpose. You haven’t found it yet.

You drift around and around, searching. You stumble across the Ultra V’s, and you’re completely conflicted over them. Cherri doesn’t seem to like them much, but you find yourself ensnared in their little gang. You hate Val, but there’s something achingly familiar about him that makes you stick around despite it, you desperately want to destroy BLi.

Vamos and Vaya seem to be interested in you, at least. They try to give you a make over, and because they’re wanting to be your friend, they decide to invite you to a party at the Pit. They’re pitying you a bit, you know. But they seem genuinely excited to have you along, so you decide to go, even though you have no interest in parties or any of the acts like AKA Loretta or Bad Words.

And you find yourself in the middle of a concert, throwing up. You feel so sick, so awful, and you don’t know why. Well, you do- you definitely shouldn’t have drank that shitty, expired beer someone tried to sell you. But it’s more than the alcohol in your system that’s making you feel like shit.

Your jacket doesn’t even fit, your hair feels gross, and everything seems to just be terrible. But you want revenge for your friends, and if making friends with the Ultra V’s is the only way, then you’ll do it.

Vamos and Vaya notice you don’t seem too hot. Their suggestion is to give you more ‘juice’ that you know for certain is spiked, considering the way they were swaying on their way towards you. You take the drinks, but you don’t drink it.

You fade away from the crowd and try to hide. You’ll just have to wait it out. It’s fine.

There’s a group of people even more drunk than Vamos and Vaya near where you’re trying to hide. Their giggles are louder than even the rock music blasting from those shitty old speakers, the bass tab that’s rattling the ancient rafters. You creep foreword, curious about what they’re laughing at.

They say that at parties, there’s a strange ghost that seems to linger about. However, you can only see them when you’re drunk off your shits, so no one will believe you when you see them. They’ve been spotted all around the zones for the past ten years, jumping from party to party. You wonder if maybe those drunks are seeing them- after all, this is a party, and they are all completely inebriated.

There’s a kid who looks your age, maybe even younger. They’re holding a red solo cup, waving their hands around as they tell a story that’s captured the entire group. They almost appear to be glowing as they speak, their voice carving out a story that sounds oddly familiar. It’s a funny story, from what you understand. The drunks are laughing so hard some of them have bursted into tears. 

You push past a couple, making your way towards the redhead. There’s something about them that draws your attention. Their voice reminds you of someone, someone lost to time.

The story ends and two of the drunks go sprawling on the floor, laughing so hard they look like they’re choking. The redhead swirls the drink in their hand but doesn’t drink, just leans against the wall of the make shift concert venue.

Their eyes flick up to meet yours. You feel as if you’re under the merciless gaze of a thousand suns, and you swallow thickly. They smile.

“Heya, kid,” they greet. 

“Hello.” It’s all you can manage.

“You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself here.” They cock an eyebrow. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know.” It’s honest. You move past a couple of people who have begun making out and you settle against the wall next to them. “I’m just… trying to see where I fit.”

“This ain’t it, hun.”

“Yeah. But this is where my friends are at.” You hum. “Well, in a loose sense. We’re just people with the same motivation, I guess.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

You don’t know why you’re spilling all this to someone you’ve never met. But there’s just something so comforting about their presence, and you haven’t been able to confide in someone for years. “We both want to fuck up the system that killed our friends.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?”

“We’re going to start a riot against Battery City. We’re waging a full scale war, and Val wants to kill everyone inside.” You huff. “It sounds nice, I guess. We’ll be able to destroy the city that stole my siblings, who died for me.”

The redhead watches you, a strange expression on their face. “Do you agree with that idea?”

“I don’t know.”

“I thought waging a war against BLi would be the way to do it. But that's just going to cause carnage for the sake of carnage. Trust me, it won’t work.” They twirl the drink in their hand. “It’s always your choice, of course. But is this what you want to do? Do you want to spill so much blood? So many of the people in that city are innocent. They’re victims, too. Do you want to spill their blood?”

You remain quiet.

“It’s a hard call.” They sort of punch your shoulder. Their hand is strangely cold. “But I think you’re better than that. There’s something special about you. Val Velocity preaches a war, and all he wants is to be the saviour to this fight. But I don’t think creating a war is the answer.”

“Then what is?”

“You. There’s something special about you.” Their eyes twinkle. “You said your siblings died for you. They must have known you were something special, too.”

You groan. “I don’t want to be. I don’t want to be something special.”

“And you don’t have to be. Again, it’s all a choice.” They give you a tired smile. “And it’s all yours. Just make sure that when the end comes reeling, you make the right choice.”

“How do I know it’s right?”

They tap your chest, right at your heart. “You just gotta follow this pretty little organ. There’s no right answer to any question, especially not the one you’re trying to ask. So you just have to make a decision, and hope that your heart is right.”

“All I can do is hope?”

“That’s all anyone can do.” They set their drink down. “But I believe you’ll do the right thing.”

“Hey, what’s your name again?”

“Girlie!” Someone shouts. You glance over at Vamos, who’s very close to tilting over. “Val says we should go on home. AKA Loretta’s done anyway. There’s no point in staying around.”

“One moment!”

You glance back at the redhead. But they’re already gone, and you realise that you just saw the ghost that’s been haunting so many parties for ten years. 

You don’t forget about that redhead. You keep thinking about them, about how familiar they seem. It won’t hit you until later, until Val Velocity hands you back that yellow mask after you release all the souls from their chains. You won’t realise it until long after you decide that this war against BLi has to end, that they’re words were true.

That was Party Poison.

The red hair, the blue jacket, the velvet voice you remember telling you bedtime stories, the voice that stole power from Dr. Death Defying and sang siren songs of rebellion. The voice who’s last word you ever heard was a soft, broken, “Run.” You may have forgotten all of your siblings' faces, but you remember their voices. And you remember Party Poison’s voice.

You know Cherri Cola’s been searching for their mask for years. You think you finally understand why- the obsession isn’t just an obsession. It’s more than that, because their soul is still on this plane of existence, because the Phoenix Witch never came for them.

You drop the mask in the mailbox. You don’t forget them, not even when your mother comes stumbling back into your life. But as society’s shambles become the building blocks for a new society, and parties begin to start back up in celebration over the overthrow of tyranny, and people shout cheers for the sweet revenge against the corporation, well…

There hasn’t been a single sighting of Party Poison since. 

And you’ll never be able to forgive yourself with what happened. You’ll never get over the tragedy that was the Fab Four’s quadruple suicide. You’ll never forgive the fact that they die for you, that all four of them are rotting in a grave because of you. You’ll never forget the fact that they were teenagers- children- when they gave up everything they had just for you. 

But it does make you feel a little peace, to know that maybe, you just gave one of your siblings the peace they deserved.

And now, it’s time that you find your own.

**Author's Note:**

> okay so in case it wasn’t clear:  
> \- person one: just some nameless killjoy  
> \- person two: show pony  
> \- person three: cherri cola  
> \- person four: Vaya  
> \- person five: Val velocity
> 
> anyway i saw this [ post ](https://therealblackparade.tumblr.com/post/615322924830834688/last-night-i-dreamt-that-party-poison-was-an) and i was like. hm a combination of my favourite things? cryptids, parties, & party poison? Perfect.  
> also the canon timeline is all fucking jacked up, so timeline wise: the killjoys died in 2019. the girl is six. twelve years pass before the start of the comics, which means it is 2031 when the girl releases all the souls and stuff. she’s also eighteen.
> 
> in case u were wondering: the girl doesn’t recognise party poison, and party poison doesn’t recognise her, either. it’s been twelve years, after all- she’s changed a lot since she was six. but when she meantions her siblings dying for her, party poison has a hunch that that’s their little sister.


End file.
